


She is the One Named Sailor Moon

by DeanBean



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M, Well - Freeform, by underage I mean like 17 tho, later on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:38:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeanBean/pseuds/DeanBean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a convention fast approaching and Bro won't tell what cosplay he's got planned for he and Dave!<br/>Already established Stridercest and some fluffy Dave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fighting Evil by Moonlight

You know how old people in movies can always tell when a storm is coming? There’s always an old man with no teeth or a balding lady with a shotgun rocking back and forth on their rickety old front porch to tell the main character that they sense a big swell is a-comin’ this way. And sure enough, when the camera pans to the sky, the clouds are thick and an evil, purply color. 

You feel like an old redneck sitting on a front porch now. Except you can’t tell if it’s going to rain or not because that’s what watching the news is for. Seriously. Would anyone even watch if it weren’t for getting the daily, off-kilter weather report? 

Anyway, what you can tell is that there is a convention approaching. And it’s approaching fast. Approximately three days away, maybe even two from the state of your living room. It’s usually a mess in the first place. Apple juice bottles mixed in with beer bottles. Pizza boxes, dirty dishes that will never get washed, knives, swords, javelins, death-stars, puppets and tangled electronic wires. Old, unraveled film, sweat stained hats and that one robotic, leg-looking thing that never gets explained no matter how many times you ask. 

Now that debris is pushed up against the walls in mountains and Bro is sitting on the filthy rug in the center of the room with Cal hanging from his shoulders. His hair is pushed back from his face and held in place with clips and there are two needles held firmly between his lips. Wrinkled pattern paper with dotted lines you never understood are mixed in with different colors and types of fabric. The sewing machine hums along as he pushes a piece of white material through it carefully. 

You know he’s not just making Smuppets because he lovingly hand stitches those babies. He says he fills each one with hot love. And you really hope that doesn’t mean what you think it does. 

No, when he’s spread from his room to the living room, you know it’s time to make costumes for a convention. It’s also time for him to be as hormonal as a Katy Perry with PMS for a day or two as he sews and prepares and frets over not getting things done. Then he crashes for like, twenty-four hours before waking up and practically injecting himself with Redbull and Mountain Dew. 

And oh god, the Vocaloid and anime soundtracks. Thank god he hasn’t started that phase yet. Disguising your footsteps with the hum of the sewing machine you saunter over and plop onto the futon to watch his shoulders flex as he controls the fabric he works with. The TV is playing some horse movie. 

Okay it’s not some horse movie. You know Seabiscuit when you see it because you’ve watched it with him four million times. He watches it to calm himself down before he breaks down completely. Black Beauty is the go-to when he’s done for. So at least there’s that thread of hope. 

You’d just got back from the graveyard shift at your job as professional-pizza-slinger. It’s past midnight and you smell like grease and burnt cheese and the pop shit they pump into the kitchen all day is stuck in your head like a massive sticky blob of mainstream sludge. 

Of course, you didn’t need to work. Bro made enough money with the Smuppets and other unmentionable things for both of you to have top-notch mixing equipment and pretty high-tech laptops. But your cell phone bill is ridiculous… and that’s pretty much all a part-time minimum wage job is going to pay for so you figure at least your helping out with that. You think he appreciates it. 

Plus it gives him more funds to travel to every freaking con in Texas and along the border and to one’s he knows his internet friends are going to be in swarms. He drags you along to all of them. When the school asks questions, he blames it on family issues. The counselors call you into their offices a lot to talk about home life. 

When you’re honest about the weapons in the apartment, your diet of fast food and apple juice, the strifes on the roof at midnight and your unabashed love for your older brother’s dick they give you detention for lying. You work off most of your make-up hours there. 

When the sewing machine finally stops, you clear your throat, raising and eyebrow at him, though he can’t see it under your fringe of hair and your firmly affixed shades. 

“Oh, you’re home.” He has the kindness in his heart to at least acknowledge your arrival before hunching over and continuing his delicate work. Oh no. You are not having that. You had a crappy day at school (as usual) and worked sucked (as usual) and you deserve proper attention. With a grunt, you fall down to your hands and knees, crawling like a lizard across the carpet to nip at the back of his neck. 

“Don’t sound so excited,” you scold, carefully unlatching Cal from his perch and setting him aside with a little bit too much force. Bro falters for a second but continues pushing the fabric through the machine as you loop your arms around his waist, nuzzling your face in the short hairs at the base of his neck. “At least tell me where we’re going and when,” you murmur.

“San Antonio. On Thursday. Staying until Monday,” he says, lifting the piece he’s working on up to examine it at a different angle. It’s some sort of shirt, from what you can tell and he’s trying to bring in the waistline. 

“That’s three days of school,” you remind him. Four if you don’t make it back on Monday. You know you won’t. You didn’t last year. Your teachers are going to have a cow. Today is Tuesday so that means you have exactly two days to suck up as much as possible. 

“You’re a seventeen year old boy and you’re bitching about missing school? Man, I raised a fucking loser.” He snorts. 

You whack him upside the head and kiss the spot you hit him. His hair always smells like pomade, cigarettes and citrus. It’s almost a comforting scent. Burying your chin in the spiky mop haloing his face, you point at the white material. “What’s that for?”

He snickers. The kind of snicker that means he has a secret. That snicker is the reason he could never throw you a surprise birthday party or get you a good gift. He could sure as hell keep a straight face when he was attacking you with Smuppets or throwing knives, though. “You’ll have to wait and see. I’m just making the shape. Then I’ll start working on yours.”

“Who says I’m gonna dress up for your stupid convention?” you ask, your jaw digging into his skull with every movement. He’s been dragging you along since you were fourteen and the only thing you’d ever let him force you into was a custom, bright orange bird suit/saggy footy pajama thing that was actually really comfy. Of course, it was only for ironic purposes. You wear it every year when you’re just too drained to put on normal clothes. 

He turns to you now and you bob your head to avoid being poked by his shades. “Oh, you’ll do it.” He smirks. God, you love that look. You decide to let his ominous comment slide and settle for pecking the tweaked up corner of his plush mouth. Two days left of sewing and he’s letting you distract him this much. He’s planning something big that he wants to distract you from. You’re going to take advantage. 

With a smirk of your own, you move your hand to the back of his head, pushing it further around and angling yourself to kiss him sideways. Those lips… The first ones you ever touched with your own, are still as soft, yet chapped as they ever were. The way he moves them against yours is familiar. Like breathing is familiar. He’d kill you for getting so sentimental, but you know he feels it, too. Otherwise he wouldn’t have his leather clad hand on the back of your neck. He wouldn’t be sighing into your lungs, pushing your mouth open. 

Tightening your grip in his hair, you rub his stomach with your free hand, breath mixing with his. He must’ve just finished a cigarette or something because all you taste is tobacco. “You taste like an ash tray.” You say, placing small kisses between each word. “You know, smoking is the reason I don’t swallow? Your jizz tastes awful no matter how many oranges you eat.” You lean back to eye him properly. You can scold him all you want about smoking; he’ll never stop. 

“You smell like an Italian hobo,” he retorts. You roll your eyes and lean your forehead against his. “And you know you love the taste of my hot loads.” You lightly bonk your head against his.

“Take a break and come take a shower with me,” you suggest, eyeing the door to the bathroom. 

“I’ve got so much shit to do, Dave.” He sighs, looking between his unfinished project and the bathroom to. You start doing this whining thing in the back of your throat that had gotten what you want out of him since you started sleeping together. After a few moments of the special noise and light rubbing of your foreheads together, he sighs again. “Alright fine. But only because you reek.”

You grin and ruffle his hair before pushing yourself up and trotting towards the bathroom, already undoing the fly of your jeans. You toe the door open and wade through the layer of abandoned clothes covering the floor like carpet. You peel the greasy work shirt off your back and toss it on the sink. You’ve got to wear it again tomorrow and you’ll never find it again if it joins the debris. Your shades go on the designated shades shelf high up on the wall.

The soap-scum covered shower door rustles when you slide it over, leaning over to turn the water on and adjust it. The faucet is old and a little rusted around the edges, but the showerhead above is brand new and detachable with three different speeds that definitely come in handy. You’re so glad you gave Bro that idea. 

A smirk splays across your face when you feel his arms around you, a bare chest against your back as he splays his hands over your scarred stomach. Of course, most of those scars are his fault. And a lot of his are yours. You just think it makes you both look hotter. His lips meet your shoulder, then his tongue, then his wonderful teeth, biting down just _so_ to make you sigh. 

You reach out a hand to test the water. Still lukewarm, but who even cares about that. Not you. Not with Bro behind you, tugging your pants down for you. Not with his mouth kissing a line down your spine, over your side and hip and down the back of your thigh as the material dropped lower. When your pants are pooled around your feet and his trailing kisses have reached your ankles, you step up and out and into the shower, turning around and crooking a finger, beckoning him inside. 

He’s smirking at you too and your heart starts racing. You step underneath the spray, watching as he makes a show of pushing down his own, polka-dotted boxers. He takes his sweet time stepping into the shower, standing to the side and displaying one long, hairy leg with a supposedly sexy slap. 

You snort, tugging on the big toe. “Fucking dork.” 

“But I’m a sexy dork,” he says, finally depositing himself in the small shower and sliding the door shut. You drape your arms around his neck, sliding wet fingers through his hair. 

“You’re _my_ sexy dork,” you clearify. Before he can object, you crush your lips to his. Actually showering can be saved for later. 

\\\\\

About an hour and a half later, you’re lying in Bro’s bed with that pleasant, spent ache radiating from your center. Some old anime movie from the eighties is playing on the TV and he’s in his boxers, hair drying into natural waves at his desk, hand stitching something in the bright light of his lamp. He keeps sipping from some supersized, off-brand energy drink thing and you know he’s not coming to bed tonight. He’ll still be up when your alarm goes off for school. 

You hate it when he works himself like this for no reason. But for some sick reason he seems to enjoy it. When he’s happy, you can’t help but feel happy, too. You know it’ll get worse, though. He’ll be a train wreck by the end of tomorrow. 

But for right now, you’re perfectly content with watching his thimble-covered fingers move with ease. You don’t even care that you’re using an overstuffed Smuppet as a pillow as the chopped Japanese and sound of his soft humming lull you to sleep. 

Nightmares of meteors and death and fire used to plague you every night. Bro said you woke up screaming every night since you were two. He’d come in and rap to you and you’d fall right back to sleep, assured that he was alright and that the world wasn’t melting around your feet. Now that you’re older… and you’re sleeping in his bed for a different reason, the nightmares hardly ever happen. And when they do, he’s right there and you can reach out to him and curl around him and press your ear to his steady heartbeat. 

There isn’t a rhythm in this world as strong as that beat.


	2. Winning Love by Daylight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sneak preview.   
> But it's still a surprise!!

“Well you certainly had a good night.” Your _favorite_ shrill voice preludes a smack to the shin from a rickety walking stick. She doesn’t need that god damn thing. You bet she could walk across a highway without any help, but she keeps the cane to smack you with; you just know it. 

Terezi’s blind as a bat, and anyone could tell just by looking at what she wore. Today it was a bright purple tank top with a dragon pattern along the hem and a teal and black striped shirt with short, poofy sleeves. Her leggings are bright red and patched with safety pins in the left knee. If she weren’t wearing sandals, you’d bet a dollar that her socks wouldn’t match. She grins at you, eyes crinkling in the corner behind her rose-colored sunglasses. 

“How can you tell?” you ask, running a hand through the front of your hair. It was sticking up everywhere because you fell asleep with it wet. And you’re wearing one of Bro’s V-necks because you didn’t feel like trudging all the way to your room to pick out clothes. It’s too big on you and his sweat pants drag behind your flip-flops no matter how high you pull them up. Anyone could tell that you weren’t in your own clothes. But Terezi can’t exactly _see_ you. 

“You smell orange,” she explains, as if that makes total sense and trots to her spot at the desk behind you. Once she’s situated, she leans forward and gives your hair a good, long sniff. “Cigarettes and hairspray and typical cinnamon. You were with Mr. Mysterious Boyfriend.” She guesses with a certain nod. 

“That’s really creepy, you know,” you remind her. For as long as you’ve known her she’s been able to tell when and where you’d been and exactly how to press your buttons. 

“So I was right. Ooooh what’d you do? Was it niiice? The way you’re moving makes you seem tired. Up late, Dave? Does your poor butt hurt?” You flick her in the middle of the forehead and she snickers. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

“None of your business,” you say. The same line you give every time she pesters you like this. She really is the best friend you have outside the internet. The two of you are inseparable and can even complete each-other’s sentences. You were there before she went completely blind and she was the first person you told about liking dudes, besides Bro, of course. You’re a dynamic duo. But she’s never been over to the apartment. 

As soon as she sets foot in that place she’d be able to tell that Mr. Mysterious Boyfriend was your older brother and even if the two of you were BFFsies 4 lyfe, you aren’t quite sure how she’d handle that. You’re not sure how anyone would handle it. So it’ll be your little secret and you’ll keep going over to her house to study and avoiding yours. 

“Ooh Red Hot, you know that just makes me all the more curious! I’ll figure it out one of these days. You know I will.” She taps her green tipped fingers against the desk and raises an eyebrow. 

You do know. That’s the scary part. You decide to change the subject. “My Bro’s taking me to another convention. This one’s in San Antonio. I really hope he doesn’t have a fucking booth this time because the last thing I want to do is spend three days selling Smuppets to pimple-faced losers. I mean, we make enough money to live off _fancy_ food for a while, but his clientele are all creepers. I-“ 

“I know you’re just changing the subject, but I know the drill. Get your schoolwork for you, even though you’ll never do it and tell the teachers it’s for family problems.” She rolls her eyes. “But you have to bring me back something this time.” 

“Hot yaois?” you ask. 

“Well yeah, what else is there?” she laughs. The bell rings over the tinkling sound and you turn around, folding your shades up and tucking it into the collar of your shirt before teach can yell at you for wearing them indoors. You’d have to be legally blind to pull that off, and saying that it’s an empathy thing stopped working in eighth grade.

///

Lunch is the same sludge it usually is, but this time they’re calling it turkey and dressing. You’d kill for a grilled cheese right about now with chips in the middle to add some crunch. Like Bro made it when you were five. 

Terezi sits across from you, munching on an apple from her lovingly packed lunch. Her fingertips are splaying across a Braille copy of a government text book and she was smiling. Law is her thing and the manic grin on cracking her face is frightening. “You’re having way too much fun.” 

“Justice is sweet,” she says, talking a hearty bite from her apple with a loud crunch. You roll your eyes and poke your fork into the mushy stuffing and meat. At least it smells like seasoning instead of just cardboard and generic paste. You shovel a few forkfuls into your mouth and chew without thinking, whipping your phone out to check if you missed any messages while it was on silent. 

Scrolling through your messages, you see a few from John who was just bored in his math class. That was an hour ago and he’d logged off; so apparently he’d found something interesting to do. Bro’s the only one online, so you shoot him a message. 

TG: are you breaking from your manic sewing  
TG: or are you just using the computer to listen to the mixes i made  
TG: that are sweeter than yours   
TT: Right. You learned everything you know from me.   
TT: It will be a long time before the student surpasses the teacher, grasshopper.  
TT: Call me senpai.   
TT: Do it.   
TG: nope.   
TG: what am i some sort of shojo slut   
TT: Well, yeah.   
TG: fuck you in the ass man  
TG: with something square    
TT: You really shouldn’t sext in class, Dave. But while we’re on the subject…  
TT: What do you think?   
-timaeusTestified has sent you better like it i made it with my blood sweat and tears.jpg--

You open the attachment and swallow so loud, Terezi looks up. 

Displayed, crystal clear on your screen, is a picture of Bro in the long mirror hung up on the inside of his closet door. He’s wearing a black wife beater, flexing the arm not holding the camera. Lower down, his crotch is just barely covered with a short, bright blue, pleated skirt. His legs are spread and the slight bulge in the front of the material makes it obvious he’s not wearing any underwear, even in the small picture. 

Underneath the lunch table you cross your legs and ignore Terezi’s even more pointed smile. She must be able to smell pheromones too. 

TG: will you be in that when i get home   
TT: Why would I be?  
TT: It’s not quite finished yet. I still need to fit it to your waist.   
TG: hahahahahaha fuck that  
TG: the only thing ill have to do with that is fucking you in it   
TT: Oh come on! Have a little fun!   
TT: When I’m done with this baby, all the girls and boys will be begins for that Strider dong.  
TT: Trust me.   
TG: be wearing that when i get home and maybe ill think about it   
TT: This is yours, little Bro. But I’ll have something nice for you I *guess*.  
TT: See you then hot stuff. You’re gonna look so great. ;)

Before you can remark about how fucking cheesy a winky face is, he signs off, leaving you to recount your conversation. 

Sure, he’d tried his hardest to get you into a skirt since you were fifteen, but it was a fight you refused to lose. You can point to each scar you earned because of an anti-lolita-Dave strife. One on your arm, one on the back of your thigh where he’d tried to slice through your jeans to just make them into a skirt that way and one on your hand. 

All those strifes usually ended with him wearing the fru-fru clothes to make you see how hot it would be. And it is hot… On him. 

You shift again, crossing your legs the other way and shoving your phone back in your pocket. “Whats got you all hot under that collar?” Terezi cocks an eyebrow. Somehow she’s found your face and her glasses are pointed directly at you. 

“I’m just ready to go home.” You answer, clearing your throat to prevent nervous cracking. Damn, the rest of the day is going to take forever. And work will be a drag… but what Bro might have planned gives you enough power to trudge through. 

///

When you get home the living room is almost clean and that’s the most frightening thing you’d ever encountered. Except, it’s not really clean. Everything is just still pushed up against the walls but Bro had moved all his work somewhere else. But still, when you opened the door to a clear patch of dirty carpet, your heart nearly dropped out through your ass. 

“Bro?” you call, dropping your backpack by the door. The feint hum of a sewing machine vibrates from his room. There’s a pizza on the kitchen counter and it’s the last thing you want. You didn’t have work tonight but being around nasty-ass pizza all day made you queasy at the thought of actually eating it. You pad over to the kitchen and open the fridge to carefully grab a bottle of apple juice from the death trap of swords and fireworks. His door is shut and there’s a hotel “do not disturb” sign hanging from the knob. A net is swinging from the ceiling full of multicolored Smuppets and there’s a trip wire in front of the doorway.

“You know I’m not stupid, right?” You yell, pulling a death star from its perch in the kitchen wall and bend down, flicking your wrist to smoothly throw it right through the trip wire, snapping it cleanly. The Smuppets fall with a _fwump_ and you smirk. Seventeen years of dodging attacks and being buried in puppet ass has trained you to watch out. There’s bound to be another trick somewhere, but at least this one has been debugged.

Nursing your fresh juice, you toe forward, pushing plush puppets gently out of the way. Now that there’s a bit of clutter on the floor you’re more at ease. Maybe you should push all the furniture back to where it was supposed to be, but there was something else on your mind. 

“I think you’re forgetting that you made me a promise,” you say, leaning an ear against the wood of his door and rapping your knuckles against it. 

The sewing machine stops and you hear the scrape of his old rolly chair. “I think you forgot how to read the words ‘Do. Not. Disturb’. It’s a surprise! Scram!” 

“You’re so full of shit. You’re working on your dumbass con shit and you forgot about treating me to your sweet ass wrapped in a skanky skirt.” You wrap your fingers cautiously around his doorknob. It’s not heated up or buzzing with electricity. All you have to do is turn it just _so_ and push…

He’s up and at that door before you can open it an inch with his eyebrow cocked. “You ain’t slick, little man.” He says. “Don’t you have work or something to go to? Friends to hang out with. A liquor store to knock over? I’m almost done here.” He opens the door up enough to be able to pry your fingers off the handle. “It’ll be worth it. I promise.” 

“You keep saying that.” 

“I keep meaning it.” He says with a smile. His shades glisten mischievously. You sigh, puffing the hair up from your forehead before leaning up to kiss him. 

“I’ll be waiting. This better be worth my fucking while.” You warn, squinting your eyes even though he’d never be able to tell behind your own dark sunglasses. 

He doesn’t answer you. Just shuts the door and you hear the click of a lock. You kick the door for good measure before collecting your backpack and trudging to your room. For the last four nights you’d only been home long enough to shower and sleep. Even though you were looking forward to Bro in a skirt, catching up on school work sounds kind of nice. 

What the fuck, man. You’re not a loser like that. You mean that having less work to do will lift a weight from your shoulders. It’d be more of a loser move to fail high school than to actually do the work… Right? Damn. You’re turning into your nerdy friends. The ones that study. Gross. 

Speaking of, it’s nice to have speculated time to actually talk to your pals. You chat with them all day on your phone but that’s not the same as sitting in front of a camera and watching a movie with all of them at the same time. 

With a smile, you kick your door open and lope inside. It still smells like just you in here. Bro is just a feint hint in the air, and you’re most likely imagining that. This is the only place you can call your very own. Your computer. Your camera. Your unmade bed that you’ll admit is more comfortable when Bro is in it with you. 

You toss your backpack on your computer chair and with the spin that creates a string is pulled…

And an entirely new pile of Smuppets plummets on top of your head. For the millionth time in your life you are literally covered in nauseatingly colorful puppet ass. You don’t even have a sword to slice your way through. Shit this is so undignified. You feel impure. 

“ _Fuck you!!_ ” you scream, clawing your way out of the pile with kicks and scratches. The only thing keeping you from ripping the head off of every stupid doll is the worry of what Bro puts inside them. 

In the other room, you can hear snickers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what is this bullshit there isn't even any porn.


End file.
